Sabbatical
by ravishinginred
Summary: A gunshot wound took Sherlock out of action for six months. Yet he didn't expire of boredom. How was it that he didn't suffer further injury at the hands of his exasperated friends and family, not to mention the much aggrieved hospital staff? Missing scenes set during HLV. Fluff. Pre-relationship.


A gunshot wound took Sherlock out of action for six months. Yet he didn't expire of boredom. How was it that he didn't suffer further injury at the hands of his exasperated friends and family, not to mention the much aggrieved hospital staff? Missing scenes set during HLV.

* * *

"I didn't know what else to do!" Lestrade exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "_It's 1 am! _ John's gone home, visiting hours are over, and Sherlock is having a conniption. The minute we turn our backs, he'll bail. Again."

"So you _handcuffed him to the bed?_ Is that legal?" Molly whispered incredulously.

Greg just shrugged.

It was July and Sherlock had been re-admitted to Bart's five days prior. He'd set back his recovery with his traipse about London. An additional surgery to repair internal bleeding had been required. Now that he was cognizant and off the heavy-duty painkillers, he was increasingly frustrated with his body's limitations and impatient with the recovery process. True to form, Sherlock had been causing an uproar by being uncooperative, demanding, and outright belligerent.

Not atypical behaviour for any man in the hospital really. Men could be such babies.

And it would be a minimum of four months before Sherlock could be released. God help them all.

"Lying about isn't going to help his recovery," Molly sighed.

"Especially when he terrorizes every physical therapist that tries to work with him." Greg paused. "Maybe..."

"What?" Molly asked wearily. She knew by the look on his face that she wasn't going to like it.

"Maybe you could visit him and I dunno, try to baby him a bit?"

Molly snorted. "Sherlock would tear me to shreds with his bare fingers if I tried that."

Greg groaned. "We've tried everything else. Calm rationalizing. Cajoling. Encouragements. Shouting at him...Mostly the latter really. He's restless. And bored. And when Sherlock gets bored, he gets …"

"_Dangerous_," Molly finished, pursing her lips, thinking. After a moment, she walked over to the lab's supply cupboard, tucking an item under her lab coat.

"Gimme the key." She held out her hand.

Greg's eyes were as wide as saucers, passing the key to her tentatively. "It might be best to wait until morning, or at least a few hours. He was bloody furious when..."

"Can't have a meltdown without an audience," the pathologist called out as she exited the lab.

When Molly reached the correct floor, she gritted her teeth. His shouts could be heard from the lift. She braced herself, stepping into the room and calmly dismissing the technician. Molly didn't address Sherlock directly for several minutes, tamping down her natural inclination to offer him sympathy and understanding. He viciously railed at her about any and everything, rattling the handcuffs against the bed as she coolly reviewed his chart and the monitors.

Molly rolled her eyes when he switched tactics, resorting to whinging when not getting the reaction he wanted. Obviously trying to capitalize what he had previously derided as her '_innate female need to nurse a man back to health._'

Utterly shameless.

Finally, Sherlock lapsed into a quiet sulk while Molly checked the IV that was nearly done. He looked like hell. The florescent lights cast a sickly glow over his already sallow and sweaty skin. Despite his exertions and raging, he didn't look flushed, just pallid with bruised, sunken eyes.

"You should be resting now," Molly told him.

"Impossible to rest or even _think _with the constant cacophony!" Sherlock spat.

And there it was. No wonder Sherlock was a maelstrom of emotions; simultaneously angry, dismissive, rejecting, and needy. While hospitals were ideologically a place for rest, they were nothing short of chaotic with the incessant assault of beeps, alarms, and background noise. Though it was the middle of the night, Molly could hear the din of tellies in other rooms and at the nurses' station, the rattling of carts as staff made routine checks all night long, idle conversation, and the coughs and groans of other patients. For someone as sensitive and observant as Sherlock, to be inundated with meaningless commotion was akin to torture.

Suddenly inspired, she pulled out her mobile to send a quick text before pocketing it.

Sherlock didn't need a doctor and he certainly needed a pep talk less so.

Molly said nothing, gently pulling the heart rate monitors from his chest and disconnecting his arm from the IV machine. An hour off of it would be harmless. Sherlock's eyes widened when Molly pulled the key from her coat and uncuffed him from the bed.

Not how she envisioned an experience with handcuffs. She thought about telling him so, but figured her jest would fall flat as they always do.

Narrow, suspicious eyes raked over her as she grabbed the dressing gown that John had been kind enough to bring.

"What? You don't want a break from this room?"

"How do you know I won't just leave? Or shout the hospital down?" Sherlock challenged, still trying to be difficult.

"I think I could outrun you at this point," Molly answered lightly. "As to the latter, I have ways of ensuring your compliance."

His eyebrows shot up to his hairline, curious. Molly smirked as she pulled an item from under her lab coat and showed it to him, affecting a menacing face.

_Duct tape._

The first smile during his stay tugged at his lips as he leaned forward to allow her to pull his dressing gown over his shoulders.

Twenty minutes later, they sat in a secluded corner of the empty canteen. It was closed for the night, perfectly dark and quiet. The technician she texted earlier found them, bestowing two mugs of coffee before hurrying back to the lab.

Sherlock's smile quickly morphed into a disgusted sneer. "Decaf?!"

"Caffeine won't help you rest."

Sherlock had a strop, dramatically sniffing and swishing the coffee, tentatively bringing it to his lips before grimacing and jerking the mug away. As if the coffee had been tainted, desecrated. Several aborted attempts ensued before Molly lost it, giggling at his theatrics.

Then he ambushed her, pinning her with those puppy-dog eyes and a quivering pout. Molly caved, hanging her head in resignation, pushing her mug toward him.

"Pure evil, Sherlock!"

The detective devoured her coffee with a satisfied sigh. His fingers wiped his lips and flopped back on the canteen bench, eyes shut, head thrown back, his limbs sprawled in an easy repose. He was exhausted from his short walk, but sheepishly grateful for an undeserved respite.

Sherlock cleared his throat, reaching for words. "About what happened in the lab... what I said before—." He flailed his hand helplessly, a rare cowed expression on his face.

"No," Molly whispered, squeezing his fingers gently. "No apologies. No promises. Just do better."

She noticed his flicker of acknowledgement, a brief nod, before lapsing back into silence.

Molly started to rise, to allow him thirty minutes of solitude when his hand shot out, gripping her wrist. His eyes didn't open and he didn't say anything. She released a breath, letting herself fall back onto the bench. His grip lessened, but didn't let go.

_Stay._

So she settled next to him, quietly savoring his deep, tranquil breaths.


End file.
